In fancy she looked into the newly adorned cabin where Captain Barney had lived alone for so many years, but, try as she might, she could not picture there the old “mither” he had so yearned to see.
Then in imagination she visited the glassed-in veranda of Doctor Winslow’s home, but it was empty and the windows of the house were covered with heavy wooden blinds.
Shuddering, she turned back into the room to find that the fire in the stove was dying down. It was cold; that was why she was shivering, she decided. Maybe her grand-dad was right. She was becoming too fanciful.
Putting on an armful of dry driftwood, she began to sing as she prepared the evening meal, and her old grandfather, who came down the spiral stairs, having set the light to whirling, felt cheered when he heard the musical voice of his “gal.”
The next morning, to the joy of Muriel, there were only a few vagrant clouds in the sky and the stars were shining when she arose.
It seemed as though never before had there been such a glory in the east as there was when Apollo drove his flaming chariot, the sun, high above the horizon, once more triumphing over Jupiter Pluvius, the God of Rain, but of mythology Muriel, as yet, knew nothing.
What she did know, and it set her heart and voice to singing an anthem of gladness, was that the storm was over and that she might sail to Tunkett and inquire after her dear friends, the old and the new.
Her grandfather, too, wished to visit the store of Mrs. Sol, for the supply of oil must be replenished. It would never do to let it get below a certain depth in the great tank which contained it, for there might come a storm of unusual length and fury and the light must be kept burning.
Muriel felt more optimistic, for we are all somewhat mercurial for temperament, and it is much easier to believe that all is well when the sun is shining, and yet, is not the sun always shining just behind the clouds that never last?
At the wharf they parted, the old sea captain going at once to the store, while Muriel hastened up the main road toward the home of Dr. Winslow. As she neared it she suddenly stood still and gazed her dismay, hardly able to believe what she saw. “Arter all, ’twa’n’t queer notions,” she said in a low voice. “’Twas true!” And indeed it was. The physician’s blinds were barred over the windows. Doctor Winslow had received word from the hospital in New York over which he presided that if he would shorten his vacation this year it would be greatly appreciated, and as Gene Beavers had gained strength enough to travel, he had accompanied the physician.